


golden syrup

by megamegaturtle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, POV Harry Potter, Platonic Hand Holding, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Self-Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: Golden syrup: a thick amber-coloured form of inverted sugar syrup that tastes delicious on scones, hot cakes, and treacle tart with a buttery, caramel flavor.Golden: something Harry Potter hasn't felt in a long while.[the one in which Luna teaches Harry how to bake](For the Dumbledore's Armada Discord Flash Comp: Magic Begins From Within! Winner for Overall Favorite, Best Platonic Friendship, and Best Use of Prompt!)
Relationships: Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter
Comments: 52
Kudos: 54
Collections: Magic Begins From Within - A Dumbledore's Armada Flash Fest Challenge





	golden syrup

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Magic_Begins_From_Within](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Magic_Begins_From_Within) collection. 



> (For the Dumbledore's Armada Discord Flash Comp: Magic Begins From Within! Winner for Overall Favorite, Best Platonic Friendship, and Best Use of Prompt!)
> 
> My prompt was "Learn to Bake".
> 
> Thanks to my betas _lder and boldofyoutoassumeihavealife!

Harry Potter welcomes the new year with a six-pack of beer and booming fireworks. It smells like war. Gunpowder screams overhead and the lively colors flash before his eyes, but no one dies at the tip of a wand. He trembles, his muscles are weak, and he is defenseless. 

With each explosion, he relives every death. Cedric, in the graveyard, his face devoid of red. Green howls on the top of the Astrometry Tower and Dumbledore falls. Sirius, in a flash of blue, his body gone in a blink. 

Change feels like swimming in the desolate waters of the Black Lake. It is numb and no one can save him, but Harry still swims. He longs for the shore, but breath is scarce, just like his seconds. He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but he waits for it with a guarded heart.

Life slows in solitude, Harry decides. It is as cozy as an empty flat that has a drafty window. Winter creeps in every crevice and rustles the tops of cardboard boxes. Loneliness nestles in the space where his friends used to stand, but Ron and Hermione are moving on to tomorrow, with or without a plan.

He sits in a deserted living room, a ratty couch as his lonesome furniture. He stares out the window, the gray sky frozen in the sunlight. It does not thaw as the sun moves across the day. He sits there frozen too and welcomes snow to fall over his soul. He wants to be buried under soft white until he sinks into the cold. 

He is the aftermath of war.

He is the definition of lost.

But someone finds him anyway.

The knock on his door is light, but persistent. The knocks continue even after a full minute. Harry gets up, his knees creak and his joints sore. He drags his feet just like his blanket clings to the floor. He trips over a cheap rum bottle; the glass echoes a shrill laugh in his flat.

His fingers glue to the doorknob and shake at welcoming someone into nothing. Hot disappointment whispers in his ear, and warm, breathy shame is enough to propel him into battle. Harry plants his feet to the ground, his body tenses for a fight. He clenches his jaw into a familiar ache.

Harry prepares for someone to drag him into a hug. He expects someone to force him back to a life with obligations. But Luna Lovegood only pauses her knocking and takes a step back. Grocery bags rest at her feet and her bottle cap necklace jingles like a blessing. She smiles up at him like she saw him yesterday.

“Hello, Harry,” she says. “I like your blanket cape.”

A blush paints his cheeks, and he clears his throat, his voice raspy. “Hey, Luna.” 

Luna stares at him patiently from the threshold as Harry opens the door wide enough for her to enter. She does not comment on the state of his empty flat or how it’s been so long since she’s seen him. She only asks to be directed to the kitchen. He leads her with slow steps, each movement heavy on his person. Luna trails behind him, and the items in her bags jostle together as a cheery chime.

Without help, she hoists the bags onto the counter and takes everything out: golden syrup, ginger, and other baking ingredients. She rests a pie tin to one side and a few mixing bowls and some utensils to the other. Carefully, she pulls out a handwritten recipe and reads it once before putting it on the counter too.

Harry licks his lips, desperately wishing he had a glass of water. “Luna, not that I’m not happy to see you—”

“But you’re not happy to see me, Harry,” she interrupts. “You haven’t been happy to see anyone.”

“Okay, fair enough, but—”

“I am happy to see you though,” she interrupts again, her smile honest and sweet. Her smile cuts like crystalized honey. It has sat too long in the opened container in the pantry, forgotten. 

Harry swallows his growing irritation; burning anger kept tight under a lid. “Right, well—thank you, but what are you doing?”

Luna blinks and gestures to her ingredients. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re making a treacle tart. Mother said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“I’m sorry—what?” Harry sputters. “You want—my heart?!”

“No, Harry,” she sighs. “We’re making this so you can get through to your _own_ heart. You like treacle tart and I brought Mum’s recipe.”

“Luna, I don’t—I don’t need to get through to my heart. I’m _fine_. Perfectly and utterly _fine_.”

Luna only hums and begins reciting the instructions. “Okay, first we must make the short crust pastry. Hermione said it’s easier the Muggle way, so I am willing to try, but I don’t know the Muggle way. Anyway, Step 1) gather the flour, butter, and very cold water. Step 2) place 272 grams of flour in the mixing bowl—272 grams? That’s such an odd number. Okay, place 272 grams of flour with 2 sticks of butter, cubed, and—” 

Luna pauses when Harry does not move and points to the counter. “Harry, what are you doing? I can’t make the tart by myself.”

Tension in his chest crawls up his throat. “Yes, you can. I didn’t even ask you to come over here today. I said I was fine and you’re—I don’t need a bloody tart, Luna! I just want to be left alone.”

Luna puts down the recipe. “Harry,” she whispers. She says his name as if he’s precious. “I don’t want you to be alone the same way—the same way you didn’t want me to be alone.” She reaches across the counter and touches the back of his hand. “I just want to help you find your shoes, Harry. Can I—will you let me help you find your shoes?”

Her chilled fingertips carry the weight of friendship in their gentle touch. Twigs crunch under their feet. They laugh as teenagers laugh. They love as teenagers love. Magic weaves into all their moments of silence, never forcing either to speak.

Luna’s pale blue eyes find him with kindness, her heart an anchor when he feels so far away. Harry wonders if he is a ghost now, but Luna’s hand wraps around his and she tugs him away from gunpowder explosions, pulling him out of darkness to stand by her side. She is the lifeline in the Black Lake, skipping like a stone across the water to the other side. She takes him with her and for once, Harry does not feel like he’s drowning.

Smiling doesn't feel right, but he clings to her hand. “Okay, Luna. We can make a treacle tart.”

She beams at him and begins reading the instructions again.

Harry was always a decent student, but in the stillness with Luna, Harry listens. He makes the crust as she instructs and makes the filling too. Together they watch the golden syrup simmer over the hob with juicy lemon and mix it with breadcrumbs. They beat the egg and cream together with a fork, but never has Harry felt more sure about a moment. Luna has never asked him to face his own crossroads. 

His chilly flat warms with the oven and the loneliness thaws with Luna’s laughter. She charms his blanket into a real cape, and it fastens around his neck with a simple button. She says it suits him.

The timer buzzes and Luna dons lion oven mitts. Heat pours out of the oven as she opens it and delicious buttery caramel wafts under their noses. Harry’s mouth waters as he watches steam rise from tart, tasting the sweet syrup in the air.

“Very good, Harry Potter,” Luna praises. She rests the tart on the table and performs a cooling spell. “The golden-brown color reminds me of the hares we see in the garden during spring.”

“...is that a good thing? That sounds like a good thing. ”

She peers at him with a small smile. “Of course. They never played tricks on us when we fed them fresh berries from our bushels.”

Luna fishes out a bowl of clotted cream she kept tight under a statis charm. The pie cools to perfect temperature with the aid of her magic, and she spells some plates to set themselves at the table. They whiz around the room until they lay calmly like little birds. Together, they sit at his small kitchen table for two. Luna pours them both a glass of milk and serves them each a slice of tart. She tops their slices with a delicious helping of sweet, clotted cream.

Harry holds his fork with trepidation, the humble slice gooey at the edges of its filling. The toasted breadcrumbs feel crunchy under his fork, but he is too nervous to slice it.

Luna’s foot touches his under the table. “Go on, Harry,” she says. “Try it. You deserve it.”

Harry meets her eyes only for a moment, but then he nods, bracing himself as the metal of his fork hits the ceramic plate. The sound snaps like a crumbled bell, but still rings with finality. With nerves on fire, he takes his first bite with dolloped cream.

Buttery warmth melts in his mouth, the hint of slight spice and sweetness oozing in all his bones. He sinks in his chair as he relishes the delicate pastry crust, the flakey layers dissolving on his tongue. The cream cuts the sweetness, so it is not overbearing, but remains pleasant like a tender kiss.

Luna props her chin in her hand and grins at him. “How does it feel to fall in love with something you made?” 

Harry blinks at her words, startled by their genuine curiosity, and he remembers the dough as it stuck to his skin. His hands still smell like lemon and when he bends his index finger, a cut stings from the juice. The pie in front of him unassumingly sits in in the middle of the table, enveloping him in kind warmth and wonderful memories.

His mouth wobbles as he takes a second bite, and Harry remembers his Hogwart’s letter. Another, the first time he made friends. He eats more and remembers Hermione’s fierce hugs when she thought no one was looking. A thick part of filling and he can feel the comfort from Ron’s laughter as they stayed up all night. At the very last bite, he remembers dancing with the girl across the table when no music played just because she wanted to dance.

Like the sun dawning, emotion wells at the corners of Harry’s eyes and his chest caves as he hunches over the table. He heaves a choked sob as he curls around his finished plate, the loneliness in his heart thawing in the warmth of a home cooked treat. Blindly, he pats the table, searching for Luna’s hand. Her icy fingers thread between his and squeeze tight as she kisses his knuckles. Her thumb traces over the spot where her lips touched.

She says nothing, but he hears her heart: _I am here with you_. 

Love builds inside him and spreads to tips of his toes, igniting a fire of forgiveness in its wake. In the trail of flames, he saves some love for himself. 

Magic washes over him when Luna squeezes his hand once more. With a teary laugh, he sits up and wipes his face. Luna looks at him as if he is handsome as she wears a content smile. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the snow inside his body melting in Luna’s bright friendship.

Harry cups his hands around Luna’s, relishing in the peace that settles over him.

He smiles for the first time in a long while.

“Thank you, Luna.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much Kiwi for making me the moodboard! You're the best!
> 
> Thank you to everyone else who read, liked, bookmarked, and commented! I hope you all go make some delicious out there and enjoy life. You're all the best.
> 
> Here's a treacle tart recipe that I used for my ref: 
> 
> https://www.daringgourmet.com/treacle-tart/


End file.
